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Dixie's BBQ

The Mariners suck. So there is even more of an emphasis on ballpark food when catching a game at beautiful Safeco Field than usual. Fortunately for M's fans, Dixie's BBQ has expanded from their base of operations in a former transmission repair shop under the 520 freeway in Bellevue (complete with formica tables and an old boombox playing Clarence Carter cassettes) to a booth at the Safe.

Pardon the low-res iphone images, but what we have here is the Dixie's Special -- a mountain of beef brisket that has been cooking in Louisiana BBQ goodness for quite some time with a hot link buried down below for good measure. It comes on a roll and is listed on the menu under the sandwiches, but I have never seen anyone even attempt to hoist one of these up to their mouths. Utensils preferred.

As mouth-watering as it is, Dixie's hasn't earned its reputation from their food, but rather a small pot of mysteriously menacing firepower.

"Meeting the Man" has become a right of passage of sorts up here, as it poses quite a dilemma. Enjoy delicious BBQ or become a man in the eyes of the village. Personally, I have made his acquaintance several times in the past and now just focus on the brisket. No one knows exactly what is in The Man, but just a few drops are enough to enough to turn your lips and mouth into the surface of the sun. Water doesn't help either, and remember not to get any in your eyes as you wipe the tears away.

Taste buds in tact or not, I'm proud to say I met the man at Dixie's BBQ -- and I have the bumper sticker to prove it. Pacific Northwest correspondent signing off....

Review: Slows Detroit Bar B Q

Detroit is back, y'all. And the prime evidence ain't the new DIA, or even a shout-out in the New York Times. The real reason is ... slower than that. CLICK HERE to find out.

You Call that Hospitality?

On Friday I had the good fortune to dine with an old friend and mentor at one of Old New Haven's shee-sheeist French Restaurants, the Union League Cafe (all of it, by the way, on the dime of an august academic foundation -- the only way to eat at the Union League, really). As was to be expected, the food was very good if somewhat stodgy. I had a pumpkin-lobster soup that, while solidly good, did little to live up to its fancy-ingredient billing, and an ever-so-slightly-too-dry roast breast of duck with fig sauce that came served with a brick-shaped "corn fritter" that uncannily (and disturbingly) resembled a McDonald's deep-fried apple pie.
    My beef, however, was not with the food. Now, I'm not one to stand too strongly on service. But is the tiniest gesture of hospitality too much to ask? Our 5:45 reservation (so scheduled so the restaurant could squeeze in two seatings on parents' weekend -- which is fine:  I'm not going to begrudge a restauranteur the right to run his or her business rationally) happened to coincide with Game 2 of the American League Division Series between the Yankees and the Cleveland Indians. Moreover, the Yankees had their asses on the line, having just lost Game 1 with a whimper. This was, to those who follow such things, and Important Game. Not too far into the drinks service, then, I asked the waiter if, by any chance, he happened to know the score. Now its fine if the dude doesn't know -- he's got options here. He can always go find out. Instead, he issues a curt "no," accompanied with a look of reproach for my asking something so gauche in the local temple of all things hoity-toity.
    I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, though -- maybe he's rushed; maybe he actually will go and find it out. He appears three or four more times (once to hustle us to get on and order already, because he had to flip his table, even though our group of 7 was still waiting for one more to arrive), and each time, no baseball score. So as one of the bus-fellows comes to clear my plate after we've finished with our main course, I figure I'll give him a try: Hey buddy, any chance you know the score of the game? He too has to ask which game I mean -- which is fine -- but at least he does so with a smile. I explain, and he promises to check with the cooks, who probably have it tuned in back in the kitchen. On his next pass, though, he has to apologize: they don't have the radio on back there, sorry for that. Finally our group of law students, PhD candidates, and one retired professor of business administration (sadly, also a Red Sox fan) came up with a last-ditch solution: ask the bartender. Which we did, to find the Yanks up one-nil in the seventh.
    And you know what: the apocalypse never came; the guide Michelin did not call up threatening recriminations; the hoity-toity quotient of the palce hardly budged. And really: would it have been so hard for the waiter to ask him in the first place? Now what would Danny Meyer think of that?

REVIEW: Hot Doug's

"There are no two finer words in the English language than encased meats." This slogan is emblazoned on the walls, t-shirts, and the minds of everyone at this sausage superstore. Wonderwood tests Doug's wares.